Last night brought me back to my usual watering hole in search of a cold beer and some air-conditioning. At this bar, they need to prepare for high-capacity so they jam as many bar stools (with backs) across the bar as they can. This does not allow for any space between seats. If you don’t know your neighbor, you will after you unpeel your thigh from theirs. Fast friends. The closeness of the stools also makes it difficult to get in or out of your seat. Any time I have to use the bathroom, put a song on the juke or just air out my underknees it turns into an Olympic sport. Sliding the stool out without disrupting the lives of those around you is an undertaking. I generally start by shoving my knees against the bar and slightly dislodging my stool from the kerfuffle. Then, I stop for a moment and meditate on my choice to say “kerfuffle”. Once I have jiggled free, I push the stool out from the line, completely blocking the flow of walking traffic. Then, I unstick my thighs from the shellacked wood and hope to the Gos that my skirt hasn’t tucked into my underwear.
Apart from the physicality of getting in and out of the seat, the vicinity of the stools to one another also makes it extremely difficult for those who weren’t fortunate enough to get a seat at the bar. Not difficult to order, mind you. The bartenders are consummate professionals and they can take an order from a mile away with Journey blaring into their ears. They’re that good. The difficulty comes in gathering the drinks you purchased. Last night, a very blonde man whispered in my ear while basically rubbing his five-o-clock shadow on my shoulder in an attempt to grab his Coors. What he said was something along the lines of, “I’m not trying to be weird, I just need my beer”. I probably could have just handed it to him.
With a sudden urge to empty my bladder I embarked on another “get off this stool” journey and headed to the bathroom. My hand instinctively fluttered to my backside to be sure there was no cottage cheese on the menu for the other patrons. I was intact. My skirt was still pointing in the right direction. I successfully peed (yes!) and headed back up the stairs with my friend the bartender at my rear. I wish she wouldn’t have been since she decided the best way to handle that situation was to lift my skirt up and giggle. A few times. This is all in good fun until someone realizes I’m wearing granny panties and makes sure to throw that into conversation at least once every ten minutes or so. It’s true. I was wearing granny panties. Although, I think they’re just regular panties that are in a size most fit for someone’s grandmother. All I know is that when I struggle to climb down and around one of the bar stools, if my skirt gets caught up in the fight at least my bum is covered.
So, that was 500 words on the state of the bar stools at my favorite bar. This is what it has come to. This wouldn’t be happening if someone agreed to send me to London.